It’s good to be back. I didn’t actually go anywhere; I’ve just been too lazy to post anything. So much for that brand-building. But in my own defense, I have been really busy and a lot of really fun things have been going on in my life. Like…I’m currently removing a wart from my arm with duct tape and salicylic acid. Also, I’ve discovered that after 30 years of retching every time I look at shredded coconut, I actually like it. And I’ve been spending a lot of time lately measuring my daily gum recession. Screw the economy! I’m worried about my dental work.
But none of this has flip-all to do with my work, which is what I’m supposed to be writing about. I’ve been doing some fun stuff lately. Some of it is top secret and I can’t tell you about it. But here’s what I can tell you. I’m writing about a cool lady in Essex Junction who makes her own beer (and then pours it all over herself and runs around her neighborhood screaming “Yar, this grog tastes like bilge!”). And I just did a video about the big dog party at Shelburne Museum. I’m pretty sure I sat in pee, but that’s just between you and me. Ok, you wore me down, so I’ll tell you what is so top secret. I’m following an emerging story about an old guy who’s building a 100-ft. raft on Lake Champlain. My biggest question is what do you do with the poop when you’re living on a raft in a lake. I’ve been assured the vessel will have “marine sanitation facilities,” which I think just means hanging your bum over the gunwales and lettin’ it rip.
Since we have already established that I’m a lazy sack, I’m going to condense the three possible posts into one exceptionally brilliant post. Be forewarned- this might be the best damn thing you’ve ever read. And by best, I mean it’s probably better than the glittering prose on the back of your shampoo bottle.
We start our combo deal post at the home of Anne Whyte, Vermont’s most famous breweress. I’m not sure if breweress is even a word, but I’m digging it. I thought it would be rad to write a profile of a local home brewer for Oktoberfest, which starts this Saturday in Munich. Not many people of the female variety get into brewing, so Whyte is a bit of an anomaly.
I love doing stories where I know nothing about the topic, which is pretty much every story except those about bikes, home wart remedies and apartments that smell like dogs. In this case, I am a teetotaler and beer ain’t my thang. But Whyte never knew that. She and I bantered back and forth about lagers and ales and pilsners and ports and everything in between. I knew enough about barley wine to be dangerous and reasonably conversant (thank Christ for my 22-year-old beer snob sibling) and luckily I had recently had a sip of a gaggy spiced fall beer and I could tell her just how gaggy I thought it was.
After spending more than an hour in Whyte’s kitchen brewery, I was wasted from the smell of the mash and the hops. Such a lightweight! Then she pulled out some sample beers for Glenn, our inimitable photog, and me, our office temperance unionist. I couldn’t blow my cover and tell her thanks, but no thanks. Glenn didn’t think twice about swilling some frosty brews mid-afternoon, but then, he has two teenage daughters and I’d do the same if I was him. So I had to accept the beer. We had a little tasting and a little chat about the flavors and then Whyte went back to cooking up her brew.
But then, just as I was thinking of heading out, she pulled some more samples from her expansive beer cellar and forced Glenn and me to drink them. Now, I’m not saying that I was drunk, but let’s just say that a few pedestrians did have to jump off of the sidewalk to avoid my car. Ok, drunk driving isn’t a funny thing. We only probably had a half of a beer total. I’m just embellishing for the sake of this pathetic blog.
I’m going to end this post now because it’s already longer than John McCain is old. You can read all about the “boats and b*tches” part of the title in another post.